


An Untitled Document (Roman Angst Oneshot)

by milomeepit



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Background Analogical, Internalized Fatphobia, M/M, Past Abuse Mention, Roceit - Freeform, Unhealthy Habits, brief violence mention, brother logince, death mention, ftm!roman, his habits probably count as some kind of eating disorder, past abusive family mention, self deprication, slight dysphoria mention, toddler!patton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milomeepit/pseuds/milomeepit
Summary: Roman has some trouble with his writing... and, if he's being perfectly honest, pretty much everything else, too.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	An Untitled Document (Roman Angst Oneshot)

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a vent fic, but eh. Who doesn't love inflicting pain and angst on our royal boy? :)

Roman groaned as he tapped his fingers against the keyboard of his laptop. The sunlight streaming in through the window left a blinding white glare on the upper half of the screen, but he didn’t quite care enough to be bothered getting up and closing the curtain. He instead angled it down, sinking lower into the wooden dining chair. His back would surely complain later, but a shower would probably fix any aches or pains from the awkward position.

He wondered if he should get up and walk around for a bit, stretch his legs and give himself a break from his (apparently fruitless) efforts to work. But, then again, it seemed wrong to give himself a break when he hadn’t really _done_ anything.

He had eaten breakfast- if cold leftover pizza and too-strong coffee counted as breakfast- and fed his pets. He’d even played with the cats for a while, and that had left a fleeting smile on his face as he sat down at the dining table with another cup of coffee and a bottle of soda to sip at while he worked.

The last dregs of coffee sat untouched in the cup, now cold and cloudy, while the soda was half-gone already. His teeth felt rough and slimy, coated in the absurd amounts of sugar from the unhealthy drink. The document on screen hadn’t changed since he sat down an hour and a half ago, the cursor blinking and taunting him. Sure, he’d written and rewritten and deleted a few hundred words, but nothing he’d written seemed _good enough._

Writing was supposed to be his _passion_ , the thing he could still grab and hold close to his chest when things got rough. It was all he had _left_ at this point. He couldn’t dance anymore, not with the weak knees he’d inherited from his mother, and his own growing ankle issues from several years of working on his feet for whole days with no breaks. He couldn’t remember the last time he performed a song or in a play, the foggy memories of hot stage lights and elaborate costumes and giggling, whispered conversations in dressing rooms now leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Drawing and painting was an option, still, but they were never really _his_ , not after the ridicule he’d received through highschool from one particularly sharp-tongued art teacher.

Roman’s stomach growled, and he grimaced, glancing at the clock. Only eleven o’clock. He couldn’t eat until one, at the very least. He couldn’t let himself slip into comfort eating again, not when he still had a generously padded belly, not when flab swung off the bottom of his arms, not when his back fat poked unattractively out of the bottom of his binder, not when-

He shook his head, as if to clear it like one of the Etch A Sketch boards his nephew loved. He was in a bad enough headspace right now without spiralling down into a dysphoric, self-body-hating hellscape.

He instead turned his attention back to his phone, which sat on the table between him and his laptop, and continued scrolling blankly through social media. Memes and posts and videos flashed past his eyes, some of them drawing a faint smirk or an amused huff. He sent a few to Dee. He was well aware that his fiance was at work, but some of them would hopefully give him a smile when he went on break later.

He set his phone down again and took an absentminded swig from the bottle of soda. He winced as it grated against his teeth, the sugar almost hurting his teeth as it swirled down his throat. He ran his tongue over his teeth, prodding at them gently. He hissed sharply as he got to the loose one at the bottom of his mouth. Adults _probably_ weren’t meant to have loose teeth, he thought to himself. He probably needed to see a dentist. When he could afford it. _If_ he could afford it.

11:11am. Roman spent a few seconds trying to think of a wish, but before his mind could grasp a solid thought, the clock ticked over, and the moment was gone. It was all rubbish, anyway. Wishes _didn’t_ come true, and life was cruel to those who didn’t deserve it. Dee was one of the best people he’d ever met, and certainly his favourite, yet he was a ball of anxiety and guilt complexes. He deserved to feel confident about himself, to love his laugh and his soft tummy and his small stature that put him at the perfect height for cuddling, to love his loud way of speaking and his passion for those he cared about. Roman certainly loved them, more than words could say.

He was jolted from his thoughts by his phone buzzing with a message from Dee. He must have been on break already. Roman had yet to pin down the break times scattered throughout his shift, so he never knew exactly when his beloved would be online during the day.

_**snakememesaremadeofthese [11:16]:** good morning darling <3 how did you sleep?  
 **cocoa_crowns [11:16]:** hi, love <33 alright, how’s work going?  
 **snakememesaremadeofthese [11:16]:** oh, you know, same old same old. It’s.. a day pft  
 **snakememesaremadeofthese [11:17]:** what are you up to?  
 **cocoa_crowns [11:17]:** nothing much really, just dishes and laundry_

That was a _complete_ lie, but Roman couldn’t quite face telling Dee he hadn’t touched the chores they discussed last night. He fully _intended_ to do them before Dee got home, that was for certain! Just… not right _now_.

__**snakememesaremadeofthese [11:17]:** so, are you working this weekend or?  
 **cocoa_crowns [11:17]:** i havent gotten a shift request yet so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
 **snakememesaremadeofthese [11:17]:** all good, that means we can stay home over my long weekend, do some cleaning and stuff.

Roman let out a soft whine. He’d honestly been hoping that he would get a job request for the weekend, between rough finances and missing his older brother. Logan seemed happy to let them stay at his and Virgil’s house over the weekend when Roman was working, though that was likely because Roman was working _for_ Virgil.

At least Dee usually didn’t seem to mind hanging out at their place while Roman was working. He spent most of his time with Logan and Virgil’s three year old son, Patton. Patton, for his part, _adored_ Dee as if he’d hung the moon and stars in the sky with his own hand. It was cute to see, even if a _tiny_ part of Roman stung with jealousy over being replaced as Patton’s favourite uncle. He genuinely did love seeing the two of them cuddled up on the couch together, playing with toys or watching TV or talking.

It made him excited for the idea of having children, in all honesty. Dee had made his desire to one day have kids clear pretty early on, and Roman had to say he agreed. For a long time, he _hated_ the idea of having children- mostly because he didn’t want to be pregnant, the very idea of it set off his dysphoria like an alarm bell- but he didn’t mind the idea of raising a child with Dee.

Speaking of… he turned back to the computer, squinting at the bright white screen. It was meant to be a story about adoption and found families and unconditional love and hope, but… he just couldn’t get it to _click_. No matter what he wrote, the tone didn’t feel _right_ for what he was trying to hit. It was just… _**Wrong**_ , and he hated himself for it.

Writing was meant to be the one thing. _His_ thing. But it just wouldn’t _flow_ , no matter how hard he tried, or what tips and tricks he tested out, or how many breaks he took, or what projects he tried to work on. He loved these stories and characters with his _whole heart,_ and he knew people would be interested in this story- after all, he’d gotten a great reception from the first installment in his planned series. He could talk about them for hours, gush about his plans and ideas and characters, but when it came to actually writing them?

_Not a chance_.

His heart ached. He felt like he was spinning in the same circles as he had been for months. New house, an (ex boyfriend) friend turned vaguely irritating housemate, new pets, a possible new job that would pay well but he was certain he would _loathe_ \- despite Dee’s company during breaks- all of these changes were throwing him off rhythm, and while he was sure that they were for the best, and long term, they would help him live a **_Happy Life_** , it was upsetting.

A small, shameful part of him wanted to go home. Not home back to the shared house he had been miserable in, despite only living there for a few short months, not home back to Logan and Virgil’s house, but back to the house he grew up in. It was _filthy_ and _toxic_ , and the people there weren’t much better, but it was _familiar_. It was _regular_. He knew how to navigate the treacherous landscape of rotting food left piled in the kitchen, of insults screamed over minute irritations, of the stench from medical issues improperly treated, of prescription medications abused and leaving the mother who was meant to protect him in a drug induced haze, of his father bellowing and throwing things and breaking precious objects and walls (and, in some terrifying cases, _people_ ), of the two middle brothers fighting and not understanding why it upset him so. He knew how to try and keep the peace, and how to cope when he failed, as was so often the case in that household. He knew who to talk to and who to avoid in that neighborhood, who to run to if he got in a fight, who to stand up against and who to back down from. The scars from knife wounds in his youth had taught him lessons more valuable than his rundown old schools ever had.

He didn’t realise that he was crying until a fat tear plopped onto the dining table, narrowly missing his phone screen. He _hated_ that he _missed_ it. He hated that he _missed_ his father, despite swearing off contact with him after coming away from their last conversation with a black eye. He hated that both he and Logan were _deliberately_ keeping their mother at arm’s length, trying to save themselves from the pain of her likely-approaching death. He hated that his other brothers were _good_ people, people he _loved_ , and he couldn’t even go near them anymore out of fear for their parents.

Roman glanced at the clock blinking in the lower corner of his computer screen. An hour and a half had passed since Dee had messaged him, and he hadn’t moved from his slouched position at the dining table. He probably had roughly three hours to do everything else he needed to do before Dee got home. That should be plenty of time. _Should_ be.

He noticed numbly that he hadn’t yet changed out of his pyjamas, just thrown on the cat hoodie he’d bought at a convention a few years ago to show it to the kittens and see if they would cuddle up in the large pocket on the front. He probably needed to shower, as well. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed.

… Well, that wasn’t _entirely_ accurate. He knew he’d had a bath at least semi-recently, because he remembered using one of the bath bombs that he and Dee had gotten at the pharmacy near Logan’s house the other weekend.

He twisted a finger into his hair, pulling his fringe down over his eyes to inspect it. It didn’t _feel_ too greasy, and it _looked_ fine. He was _probably_ fine. Though he should at least wash his face, to deal with his blotchy cheeks and red eyes, if nothing else. Maybe slap on some makeup and go for a walk in the pleasant weather outside. Take the dog with him, wander around town a bit.

As he stared out the window at Dee’s dog, who was sprinting wildly up and down her tether, probably chasing some bug or lizard, he felt his heart sink. He knew he wasn’t going to do any of that. Pipe dreams for someone with far more energy and functionality than he possessed lately.

So, instead, trying his best to ignore the looming sense of dread he felt, and the anxiety he could feel building over Dee’s return and subsequent disappointment over his lack of productivity, he turned his still tear-blurred gaze back to the too-bright screen of the laptop, readied his fingers over the keyboard, and attempted once again... to _write_.


End file.
